The Lie
by Wiz-Chic
Summary: An unofficial requested fiction based off of an AU gifset. John fakes his death before Sherlock reveals himself in an attempt to show him what it was like for himself after the fall.


**Hello everyone! Welcome to another one of my Sherlock tales! **

**This fic is done as a payback/favour for Forever-Adream who makes all of my beautiful posters for my other Sherlock Fic series 'Blind Endeavours'**

**She asked me to do a story based off of an au gifset on Tumbler created by Doomslock. You can find a link to the post/gifset on my main author page. You don't have to look at it beforehand if you haven't seen it and want to keep this fic a surprise. ( And Sorry if it's a touch choppy wording at time, I'm in the midst of finishing the last chapter for the part 2 of my other fic)**

**Also, WARNING: This is not the official fic or anything for that post. I did this as a favour and while there is angst in it, I must point out that this is not all angst, I tried to continue with an actual plot here. This is only _my interpretation_ of that gif set. **

**Without further ado- **

**Enjoy! **

* * *

Deception was usually an unwelcome thing. It was rarely used for good, and even in this case (a rare time when it was used for good) it remained unwelcome.

What? No. This was not… _possible_.

John Watson's eyebrows came together creating prominent lines on his forehead that mimicked his confusion.

"That's not… possible." He spoke softly to himself as he walked out of Bart's hospital.

**20 Minutes Earlier. **

**Bart's Hospital.**

Molly Hooper was sitting on her stool, humming along to the song that was incessantly stuck in her head. It was at approximately 2pm when John Watson walked in through her doors knocking her from her from her daydreams.

John had avoided seeing Molly Hooper. He felt bad about it. One year had passed since Sherlock's… fall. Facing Molly Hooper would have just brought back a world full of emotions for him; emotions that he'd spent the past 12 months attempting to clean up.

As he walked into the cold morgue, memories flooded John. Every moment he'd spent here with Sherlock resounded in echoes that bounced off of every wall and hit him with vigor. He shook his head as he spotted Molly humming to herself casually while filling out paperwork, _calm yourself, John. It's in the past. _

That was what his therapist had told him to think whenever the thoughts of his best friend would fill his mind. _It's in the past. _

…_He's in the past._

"Hello, Molly." John smiled. She nearly jumped out of her seat at the sight of him; she'd been so intent and enthralled in her work; that and- John Watson was a changed man.

His eyes were not as bright as they once were and she hated that she knew that they _really _needn't be so dim.

"Oh, John! Hello! What a surprise!" Her voice was far too excited. She scolded herself for her foolishly attempted act at false casualness.

"Hey Molly," John thought nothing of it, "How have you been?" that was- until he embraced her in a hug.

That one simple embrace that **would** change everything.

It had also been 1 year since John Watson had entered 221B. Mrs. Hudson hadn't the heart to find a new tenant, and John hadn't the heart to go back and clean it out. So remained as it was it sat, empty and untouched for 12 months. Dust gathered. But the memory of it all never faded. Even though John had taken back his old flat from before meeting Sherlock Holmes, they had never faded.

Those memories always remained and would be reawakened in that embrace between Molly Hooper and John Watson.

And as John hugged Molly Hooper tightly sudden flashes of memory hit him. Not one in particular- but all of them. Every little moment with Sherlock ran through his head like a movie.

Curiously enough- moments that had happened _without _Molly Hooper, things that her presence wouldn't bring up- shouldn't bring up.

Before pulling away, John took in a deep breath at his thoughts and it suddenly hit him like a burst of electricity- he could smell Sherlock Holmes on _her_.

"So…" She began , her cheeks turning red, "How have you been?"

His cologne, his deodorant, his shampoo- everything, was on Molly Hooper.

John took a moment to observe her, and did his best to attempt to focus on the conversation at hand, "I'm doing well. Actually, Molly…" No, he couldn't do this. John felt he was going mad. _Am I really smelling him everywhere now? _For the first 6 months John swore he saw Sherlock everywhere, _Now I'm smelling him? This is madness! _"I'm sorry, I just realized I have a meeting to get to. I just wanted to stop by and say hi. Let's get coffee and catch up sometime though, yes?"

"Uh, o-okay-" Molly stuttered awkwardly, wondering if she'd done something wrong.

"Great, yeah, sorry about this. Don't worry though, I'll be back sooner than last time!" His attempt on a joke was lost as John turned around and marched his way quickly out of St. Barts.

Truth was, the only appointment John had was on his way straight over to his therapists flat, and he was going to demand an emergency meeting.

Sherlock Holmes had once told him that smell was the greatest sense a human had. Smell could tell us everything, could remind us of things we'd forgotten, and expose things to us that we thought we'd never know.

Having lived with Sherlock for quite sometime, John Watson knew many things about him that others would not know. For example, that he preferred body wash over soap, he could dress himself in a suit in less than 3 minutes, he never used a brush on his hair but instead would pat it into place-, and most of all- John knew for certain what Sherlock Holmes smelled like.

It was an intimate knowledge that only one can truly gain from another during the process of living with their company, such as John had done with Sherlock. Sherlock's smell was a combination of his specific body wash, his specific shampoo, and his specific after shave and cologne. Just as John reached the outside of Barts he deduced the obvious- there was no way Molly Hooper was using all of those _male_ products. Maybe….

What? This was not… _possible_.

John Watson's eyebrows came together creating prominent lines on his forehead that mimicked his confusion.

"That's not… possible." He spoke softly to himself as he walked out of Bart's hospital.

Just as John took a step onto the sidewalk a piece of paper reached his foot. He picked it up against the wind and read the familiar sign that stated 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty Was Real.'

Banners, flyers, posters had been plastered up everywhere all over London by a group of Sherlock's followers/fans a year prior. John agreed to help and post some on his own, but could not participate as much as he'd wished as his therapist discouraged him from getting too involved, _It's in the past _she'd said-

**_He's_**_ in the past. _

Now, just as the memory of Sherlock Holmes was almost all faded from London, the flyers and posters became decorations on a windy day that blew and flew away into oblivion until barely any were left- but the man in question always remained with John. Unforgotten, never to be removed.

John clutched the piece of paper and stared at it intensely. _Don't look around… don't turn around… _ He told himself shaking his head.

He'd avoided Bart's for long enough, and he'd avoided going near the spot long enough, but as John looked around he realized he was standing in the exact spot that Sherlock Holmes had hit the ground.

"Jesus Christ." John hissed, his voice cracking. Quickly he walked into ongoing traffic, the piece of paper in his hands and tears gathering in his eyes. Cars honked at him swerving and stopping abruptly so as to not hit him- but he didn't care, he had to get away. Finally making it across the street onto the sidewalk, John calmed himself. "You have to do this, you have to do this," he whispered to himself.

"Taxi, Sir?" A voice said behind him.

"No!" John shouted suddenly. The car drove away. Slowly John turned around and faced Bart's hospital. He looked to the top of the roof, right where he'd stood. It was then John realized that this was the exact spot he'd had his last conversation with Sherlock Holmes.

He'd thought about that conversation all the time. It haunted his dreams, every bit of it.

But as he felt the flyer slip from his hands and observed a biker ride past him quickly giving him a quick glance; there was only one portion of his last conversation with Sherlock that hit John like a freight train.

_It's a trick… _

_Just a magic trick. _

* * *

**The Next Evening. **

**The Flat of Molly Hooper. **

Sherlock Holmes sat on Molly's absurdly lumpy couch, flipping another page of his newspaper. The fireplace warmed the living room that cold winter evening as he pointedly ignored the person sitting across from him.

"Would you like some tea?" Molly offered from the kitchen.

"No thank you, Miss Hooper-" Mycroft began.

"_Doctor _Hooper." Sherlock corrected in a mumble, turning yet another page.

"Doctor Hooper," Mycroft's correcting himself gave Sherlock pause, this time catching his attention. "If you would actually give me and my brother some time alone," a light nonthreatening smile on his face, "If you wouldn't mind of course."

Sherlock didn't hear Molly's response but assumed she'd left at the closing of the front door behind her, "That was unnecessary." Sherlock commented folding his paper away while knowing that it probably was necessary, but nevertheless wanting to bug Mycroft as much as possible.

"I'm afraid it was."

The eldest Holmes brother took a moment's pause to observe his only sibling. Sherlock's face was glowing in the yellow light of the fire with a look of confusion on it. "Have things not gone as planned for my reveal tomorrow?" He inquired. "John's still meeting at 221B under the impression that he must move out and then that's where I'll be." Mycroft gave no response. "Truly Mycroft, a tree stump can inform me better than you."

"Not quite." He finally answered. "All of your plans are set in stone; but there is, I'm afraid, a change in who those plans may affect now." Sherlock's eyebrows came together in a rare worry.

"_Excuse _me?" Sherlock's voice was low and threatening. There was only one person in the world- in Sherlock's world- that would cause such a personal visit and declaration from Mycroft.

Many moments of silence passed between the Holmes brothers.

More often than not did Mycroft Holmes already know the reaction of his younger brother; his ability to predict the unsociable man's reactions was uncanny. But in that moment, as the lie came through his mouth, he truly did not know what it would do to Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock …he's gone." The room felt as though it had gone suddenly still. Mycroft took a deep breath staring at Sherlock's unreadable face, "He shot himself last night in his flat."

Still, Sherlock remained unmoved. "…They didn't find his body until this morning." A pause. "No note. It seems like there was no one left in this world whom he felt needed to leave one for."

Ah, there it was. His face unconsciously snarled- it was hitting him.

Sherlock felt as though his chest had been hollowed out. A sudden knot arose in his windpipe. Biting on his bottom lip his chin bunched for a moment before he released his lip from his teeth.

He could feel Mycroft's eyes observing him, but Sherlock paid them no mind, as he did not know where his own eyes were focused on any longer. His brain had taken over with brutal force.

Every moment Sherlock Holmes had ever spent with John Watson hit him viciously. They pulled at him, taunted him, and twisted his very gut around its guilt. There was no question in the blame-

Sherlock Holmes knew he was the cause of his best friend taking his own life.

"I am sorry, Sherlock."

"_You already said that_-" Sherlock hissed between his teeth. His eyes began to burn fiercely; over and over again he attempted to remain calm- but the fire that was lit next to him and the fire that had began inside of him caused a violent heat to boil its way through his body.

Sherlock's eyes watered and his hands shook as he placed them before his lips, a low growl escaping his chest. He slammed his eyes shut, releasing frustrated tears out of his eyes. His head shook as he mumbled like a madman, "no, no, no, no, no, no…" over and over again. His long fingers rubbed his temples as he desperately searched for a way out. "That's not possible, that's not the plan…"

His mind had already processed that John Watson lay on a slab at Bart's with a hole in his head and no pulse- but Sherlock's heart strained desperately for relief. A strain that he'd never felt in his heart, especially towards the life of someone else.

The tears pooled in the crevices beneath his eyes and finally dripped down as he opened them. He could see nothing before him but the fire which raged on. The pounding in his head was in tandem with the pounding in his chest. Sherlock bit his lip so hard he could nearly taste blood, his body convulsing in to near numbness.

The frustration was growing, the pain was growing- the guilt was mounting on him bit by bit and it took every inch of him not to sob in that moment.

He didn't want to close his eyes either, because all he could see in his mind over and over was the sight of John Watson limping away from his own fake grave.

"I know this must be hard for you." Mycroft's cool voice sliced through the tension in the room. Mycroft had never seen his little brother so in pain, not even during his detox. It gave the man a moment's pause as to what he was going to say next, but Mycroft knew (in a strange way) that this is what Sherlock needed.

He made a promise, and at the very least the man who he'd promised this do deserved at least just that.

"You know nothing!" Sherlock growled finally turning his sight to Mycroft. His sorrow had been matched with a rage that would not be stopped. His whole body shook yet his eyes remained black and menacing, "You come in here pleased to tell me this _information_. I can tell you're enjoying this aren't you, hm?" He spat his words with every ounce of cruelness that he could muster; words that Mycroft only paused at before replying.

"Sometimes, the greatest bitterness is when we must get a real taste of our own medicine." Mycroft stood up and looked down at his brother who looked up at him with an inhuman gaze that surely only a demon cold possess. "Perhaps now you know what pain he went through that drove John to his death, Sherlock."

_"Get out."_ Sherlock breathed heavily, his chest heaving up and down rapidly as his eyes burned with rage before finally shouting- **_"GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!"_ **Nearly jumping out of his chair.

Mycroft nodded calmly and made his way to the door only pausing for a moment, "Happily." He replied un-phased, "I've never seen you weep and I don't plan to. We'll wait a couple of days to reveal you, shall we? …Who will love you now?" Mycroft closed the door behind him.

That was exactly what Sherlock Holmes had done.

For the first time in a very long time- he wept.

* * *

**1 Week Later. **

Molly Hooper peaked through the crack of her bedroom door. She was unable to see Sherlock, knowing he was probably still lying on the couch unmoved.

"I don't know what good that'll do…" Molly whispered into her phone before closing the door. "Mycroft, he just lays there. Won't eat, won't sleep, won't play his violin, won't speak to me or anything. Ever since that night you were here, he's been like this. I don't see what sending him to 221B is going to do other than make things worse. I'm so frightened- I just know he's a day away from leaving this flat for cocaine again, he's already tried once by inviting that dealer over while I was asleep- I just know he'll try again and I won't be able to stop him."

"Molly," Mycroft's voice was demanding, "You _must _convince him to go. I don't know, find a way." He took a deep breath, "you're one of the few people who's words have actually ever meant something to him. Make them mean something to him now. Convince him to go to 221B as planned."

"Mycroft, what's this really all about?"

But her inquiry was not answered as the other end of the phone went dead.

* * *

"Sh-Sherlock?" Molly stuttered approaching him.

He laid on the couch, unmoved, staring into the hot red embers of the fire before him. Having been numb, not uttering a word; and as Molly Hooper approached him and sat in the chair before him- he did not return her nervous glances.

Having lived with Sherlock for a year, Molly had rarely grown nervous around Sherlock anymore. But she'd never seen him like this. In fact- Molly Hooper reckoned no one had ever seen Sherlock Holmes like this.

His cheeks were sunken in unnaturally so, he hadn't ate anything in the past 7 days. His hair was more of a mess than usual. And what seemed strange enough on Sherlock Holmes, was the scruff on his face. He hadn't even bothered to shave, and boy did he look strange. If she saw him walking down the street in his current state- she wouldn't recognize him.

"Sherlock," She put on her softest matronly voice, "You should go to 221B."

Sherlock mumbled in reply which Molly could make out as, "so have a good talk with Mycroft hm?"

They were the first syllables he'd uttered in 7 days.

"Yes, yes I did. And while I don't know what happened-"

"No, you don't _do you_." Sherlock baited her mockingly, "yet you still elect to talk."

His words stung, but Molly Hooper would not be stopped. She knew what he was trying to do- and she would not leave until she got through to him.

"Yes, yes I do. And I will until you stop being miserable and be productive!" Her sudden spunk even surprised herself as well as Sherlock who was now staring at her, "I may not know what happened, but I know that in 1 hour from now you were going to reveal yourself to John. I have this strange impression that your mourning is because he… oh I don't know, went off to Africa or something and won't be there, he did seem really strange when he came to see me over a week ago, but the least you could do is honour your meeting together to tell him you're still alive. Whether he'll be there or not."

"He won't." Sherlock stated heavily. This caught Molly off guard, having a horrible feeling that it was much worse than John going off to Africa, but she persisted in her mission.

"Regardless. You owe it to both of you to go." With that, Molly reached in her pocket for the men's razor she'd stuffed in there and held it out in front of her, "Now get yourself ready, take a shower, and get rid of that god awful scruff on your face- it's frightening." Sherlock stared at her motionlessly, "Go say goodbye to your best friend."

Much to her surprise, without a word, Sherlock grabbed the razor from her hand and got up off the couch. He was not pleasant, nor was he happy, but Molly was satisfied- at least he was functioning.

* * *

**221B Baker Street. **

**1 Hour Later. **

Sherlock's legs made their way slowly up the stairs of 221B. Mrs. Hudson was out, of course, as he'd planned she'd be. Off with her affair- some things would never change. The familiar smell of the flat filled his nostrils as he walked into the living room. It remained unchanged.

The windows were dirty as the whole flat was dusty; the couch was the first thing he could see. Sherlock ran his fingers along the arm of it, remembering the restless nights he'd had on it and how many times that John had walked out during those nights. _John. _

He closed his eyes, his mind going straight to his greatest, best, and only friend. "John." Sherlock breathed aloud.

"Hello, Sherlock."

In a flash, in utter disbelief, Sherlock's eyes burst open and turned to look at the rest of the flat wherein stood John Watson between their chairs as though he'd never left. "Fancy seeing you here." He added.

Sherlock closed and opened his eyes many times before remembering how to speak, "W-what? No. This can't be-"

"What, real?" John replied nonchalantly, shrugging, "funny, I though the same thing about a week ago when I realized the same about you."

Many moments of silence passed in the flat. Sherlock's gut placed itself back in its usual place, "John you… you did this?"

"I wanted you to know what it was like," John stated numbly, Sherlock's face contorted into disbelief at John's vengeful move. "How does it feel Sherlock?"

Silence stood between both friends at 221B- the flat that held all of their memories and past lives together.

"…Now we're both dead."

"I did that to _protect_ you." The break in Sherlock's voice did not surprise John as much as he thought it would. Not much surprised John Watson these days, that much was evident.

Sherlock saw the blackness behind his eyes, the downturned lines around his mouth like he hadn't smiled in years. John Watson had grown hard and cold towards him for all the right reasons and Sherlock had no one to blame but himself.

"_One year_." John replied, "One year I spent after watching you plummet to what was supposed to be your death. What did you get? _One week. _" John hissed. "One _bloody week_ and look at you…." He took a moment and observed the disheveled Sherlock before him, "You're in _misery_. Now times that pain by 50, and then maybe you'll get an idea of what _I _went through because of _you_!"

In all of those years Sherlock and John had once lived together right where they stood- John had thought he'd seen it all from Sherlock- but he'd forgotten he'd never seen this.

Sherlock's face was stoic- this was nothing new, but it was in his eyes where it was like he was seeing the consulting detective for the first time. They were wide, and dare John think it- glossy. His pupils had dilated as they softened immensely, his eyebrows down turning as he swallowed his pride and spoke sincerely, " I had no choice, John."

"Oh I know the fall was no choice, but you could have told me! I could have kept it secret!" He shouted.

Surprisingly, Sherlock kept his voice calm and remorseful adding softly, "No, John, your every move was watched. I had no choice. And I am sorry, so sorry. …If there had been another way, I would have done it. Anything but what I knew I had put you through I would have gladly taken myself a thousand times over myself." John looked down and away for a moment before returning his gaze back to Sherlock, "I saw causing you pain in exchange for saving your life a decision to make without question. I saw it a small price to pay to keep you alive and here."

John was slowly losing his ground. And this time- it was not because that was what Sherlock had intended to happen- no, Sherlock's words were sincere, it had every bit to do with the fact that John Watson's love for his friend had not decreased over time- they had not faltered. He still felt for Sherlock as he stood there and spoke as honestly as John had ever seen him.

John's plan was crumbling beneath his feet. But John was desperate to hold on. Desperate to make this man feel as much pain as he could muster; John did not want to feel so much pain alone anymore so he countered heatedly, "And to keep _yourself_ here."'

This time, John truly regretted the words as they came out of his mouth. Sherlock's eyes widened as disbelieve arose on his face. For one of the very few times in his life- the consulting detective did not know what to say.

John stood silent as well, not knowing how to take his harsh words (even for the conversation at hand) back properly. Not knowing how to end this situation and get to where they needed to be, and as Sherlock looked down for a moment and placed his hands in his pockets in a move to ready himself to leave- John knew this was not the ending they needed. Indicating he wished Sherlock dead was not the route John had intended on going down.

Sherlock looked back at John, a stoic expression back on his face, even for Sherlock Holmes the hurt could not be masked. "I am sorry for that as well if that's how you feel. …I'll take care to leave now and not bother you again." Sherlock took a moment and stared at his friend who he'd spent the last year hoping that when this moment came- he would not be turned away. "Goodbye, John."

Sherlock was stopped- not by a voice, but by a hand on his arm. Quickly he turned around to face John, "No, don't go, Sherlock- come on, this is just- I mean it's you!." John mumbled attempting to get his words in order.

Sherlock waited patiently as the doctor attempted to get his thoughts and emotions aligned. Finally, John growled as he began pacing frustrated, "I could just punch you Sherlock, really I could kill you right now! I mean-" He stopped moving and looked at his friend, "How could you do this to me!? I know you did it to save my life and I know that it was worth it in a way but did you ever stop once and think to yourself this past year and wonder what the _hell_ I was going through? Hm? Did you!"

"I watched you almost everyday." Sherlock stated without hesitance.

"That's…" This gave John pause, realizing something else entirely, "…a little creepy."

An unnerving pause stood in the small area between them; unnerving mostly because smiles both threatened both of their faces.

"Perhaps you've become a bit mad."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "I've been in hiding for 1 year living on Molly Hooper's couch, what else is to be expected."

"Well then…" John cleared his throat, "you and Molly?"

"Not quite as such."

"Don't think I've forgiven you, Sherlock."

"I don't expect you to anytime soon." He replied with certainty, "But I…" Sherlock struggled for words at an awkward attempt, "you… well, feel free to punch me whenever you see fit. Take advantage and take out your frustrations."

"Oh I do plan to take advantage of that _very _soon." John added nodding his head before clearing his throat and taking a moment to add (quite hesitantly), "So… what do you think of Mary then?"

Sherlock looked away only for a moment before returning his gaze and mumbling, "We'll talk about that later." John nodded.

Both men stood awkwardly in silence. Their arms at their sides. Their fingers flexing constantly at a worried anticipation. They shifted from one leg to the other like lost schoolboys who'd just met out on the playground.

"Well, then-" Sherlock said choppily, "I, uhm, suppose that… well…"

In the strangest fashion, bit by bit, as though this action must be done, Sherlock raised his arms slowly and wrapped them around John. Then, quite suddenly, in one quick swift- John was shoved against Sherlock's chest, his cheek pressed against the expensive purple Yves Saint-Laurent button up shirt with no chance of being set free.

John's eyes widened considerably. It only took him a moment to realize what was happening, and only then did he lift his arms and return the favour, holding tightly onto each other… but only for a moment.

You see, two men embracing in the middle of their old flat together-

People might talk.

**Fin**

* * *

**Yay! Alors, c'est terminé! **

**Comments are lovely as always! *But NO flames. I don't want to be a part of that business on either end. **

**Much love and hope you enjoyed, **

**Wiz-Chic **


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